The Essence of Life
by Vema
Summary: It was inevitable, in hindsight. The sort of thing a real advisor might have warned Kuzco about before he started spending every free moment in the village. Kuzco/Pacha/Chica.


The Essence of Life

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_**I've been thinking about writing this for years, and finally spilled it out on paper... as it were. This story ignores the TV show and Kronk's New Groove. I really loved the sequel, but never watched the show. **_

_**I hope it's worth the read. :) **_

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It was inevitable, in hindsight. The sort of thing a real advisor might have warned Kuzco about before he started spending every free moment in the village. With a new, sturdier bridge installed, he could visit every weekend, spend two or three days with the Pacha family, and make time for extended stays whenever he felt the need.

The need struck often, and no one question the Emperor, a God, about his motives.

He loved the feeling of home, of belonging, something he'd never experienced before. Chicha loved to stuff him full of homemade maize tortillas and sopapillas, fried plantains and baked squash, even pill bugs, insisting he needed to put some meat on his bones. Pacha took him on long, leisurely strolls in the fields; the fresh smell of greenery, he musky scent of the llamas, the warmth of a hand on his shoulder were all precious. In the evening light, Chaca and Tipo would chase him around the hill, fast and breathless with innocent joy until their mother called them in for bed.

After the sun had set, the children quiet in the bed, was a time for quiet reflection before the glow of the fire pit, the heat of the day replaced by the incandescence of the fire. Somehow, Kuzco didn't remember when, it became habit to snuggle up on the cushions. Pacha reclined on the couch, one arm around his wife and the other around the emperor, pulling them snug against sides and shoulders. The heat of the fire was augmented by the warmth of bodies pressed closed together on soft cushions. Kuzco found he loved the smell of the larger man, earthy and strong, and the feel of his large hand curling around his waist protectively. His body melted into the soft heat under him, relaxing even more when Chicha's hand found his across Pacha's chest.

At times like that, he let the rumble of Pacha's voice flow through him, not totally absorbing the words but cherishing the tone and the stroke of a feminine thumb on his wrist that he returned. It was perfection, until it was time for bed and he had to retreat to his own house.

His heart ached to stay; what did that mean, he wondered, that he preferred their tiny hovel to his gloriously luxurious palace with it's cold pillows? Their plush comfort could never rival the softened hardness of Pacha's muscles covered by a layer of well-fed padding. As the comparison became more stark, he realized he wanted to share his wealth with his new friends. They were more important to him than anyone (save his own self, of course), so why shouldn't they have access to the same sort of lifestyle to which he was entitled? In fact, the simplest way to provide them with it was to move the whole Pacha family into the palace with him. His heart soared when he thought of the children with all the benefits he could provide there, and quickened strangely when he thought of Pacha and Chicha lying among silken sheets.

Kuzco didn't understand why they seemed less than thrilled when he invited them to live with him in the lap of luxury. They let him down as easily as possible, but he didn't understand it. Why wouldn't they want to avail themselves of his wealth, give their children every opportunity? He fumed and railed, but in the end found they couldn't be swayed. He tried to leave, angry and embarrassed, but Pacha hugged him hard, holding him fast as Chicha kissed his forehead, and he felt accepted again.

His misguided attempt must have clued the peasants in to his feelings, which he'd only begun to understand himself, because that night when the moon was high overhead, and he stood to head back to his own cabin, Pacha stopped him with a firm and shocking kiss. His confused and guilty look towards Chicha earned him another, softer one.

After that, he stopped sleeping in the little house on the next hill over.

Several days later, when Chaca saw Kuzco emerge yawning and half dressed, she asked why he was sleeping in her Mom and Dad's room. He had no idea what he could say as an explanation, stuttering incoherently until Pacha appeared. He put his arm around the Emperor's shoulders, and gave a two word explanation that made Kuzco blush and smile.

_He's family._

He ignored his new advisor's advice about choosing a bride, and eventually the gruff old man stopped asking. No one questioned it when Pacha and his family began to take frequent vacations to the palace with him, or when his time in the capital was only limited to when they could all be there. There was no public ceremony; after all, he was the Emperor. He used his Divine Authority to declare their union, and it was so.

No one questioned the special lessons, usually reserved for royalty, that he ordered for all of their children. The family grew over the years as another two little girls were born; Izel and Citlalli. Kuzco couldn't be sure of course, but little Lalli was small and angular, a bit of a diva, had to be the center of attention.

A lot like him.

Uncle Kuzco was a second father; Pacha read them stories and gave good advice. He taught morals, the same morals he had taught Kuzco himself. Kuzco ran with them, threw them in the air, helped them play. Showed them how to have fun.

Years later, Pacha and Chicha did finally move into the palace with Kuzco, when all the children were grown, leaving their House on a Hill to Tipo and his wife. Yupi had apprenticed with a carpenter and was on his own. Izel had shocked everyone when she married a man over half a century her senior; she and Kronk had opened a restaurant nearby. And tiny, delicately boned Citlalli followed her heart and joined a theatre troupe, traveling the country and earning her fame and fortune.

Chaca let her parents keep the room the three shared when she took the throne, and Kuzco, much mellowed with age, became her advisor. He privately thought he was much better at it than Yzma ever was. He even refrained from sitting on the throne... in front of peasants, at least. Chaca traveled the countryside, meeting her people, and honestly being a better ruler than he had ever been. She married a strongly built peasant who came to live with her at the palace. He was strong and kind, and Kuzco was proud.

Now, the lessons were for the grandchildren. Kuzco still played, but spent more time sitting than standing, his hands, gnarled with arthritis and wrinkled with age, lifting the tiny children with a bit more difficulty into his lap. He like to hold them as the lines of Pacha's beloved face deepened, his expression glowing with the stories he told as they sat with Chicha on a couch much more plush than the one in their old home. Sometimes, he tried to imagine what his life would have been like, had he never met Pacha, if he'd thrown their family, _his _family off that hill with nary a thought and spent his life alone. Nothing he thought of could rival the reality of the blessed years he'd spent with his soulmates.

It was a surprise to all when the royal doctor gave Kuzco the bad news, but really, he should have known better. Of course his body would contrive a way to go first, though Pacha and Chicha were older. He always wanted to be the center of attention after all, so why should that change with his death? It was the wasting illness, the same thing that had claimed the life of his grandparents.

When his strength finally left him, and he was confined to their bed, Chicha or Pacha was with him constantly. It was unspoken, but they all three knew they didn't want to waste a moment of his time. The children came, too, to say goodbye, and Chaca's new advisor helped him plan the funeral. It would be lavish, of course, and extravagant, just as his whole life had been. Dancing and music, and joy, he insisted. A wondrous celebration to see his spirit onward.

Gods weren't supposed to die, were they? His parents had died when he was one year old. They left him alone, coddled, but not truly loved. His Divine Father and Mother had died of something as mundane as the flu, so he knew there was no fighting this.

Well, he'd enjoyed more of life than they had. Seen his five children (for they were all five his as much as they were Pacha's or Chicha's) grow and begin families or careers. He'd had infinite kisses and snuggles, innumerable squeals of delight, even cherished tears when he's been confided in; Izel's illicit affair, Chaca's secret passion to rule, Lalli's desire to act, Tipo's fear of responsibility. They were his treasures and his joy, the icing on the cake that was his union with Chicha and Pacha.

He had always been thin, but now he looked like was nothing but skin and bones, disappearing amidst the blankets and pillows. He'd lost his appetite, only able to eat small amounts, and only able to muster the motivation so he could make Chicha happy. She fed him personally, small spoons of watery porridge or broth, sips of milk. Kuzco couldn't blame Chicha for crying sometimes, and he had enough strength left to wrap an emaciated arm around her when she lay next to him in their bed. Now he was the one in the middle, Pacha a comforting warmth on one side and Chicha on the other.

They were laying with him at the end. He felt it, knew it was time when a numbness began creeping up his limbs. He tried to gasp out something; their names, a last goodbye, how much he loved them... He wasn't really sure, but all he could manage was a hissing wheeze. A mist was encroaching on his vision. He heard a stifled sob, deep and masculine, felt warm arms wrapping around him. From his other side, Chicha, somehow the more composed one, gave him what he needed._ It's okay, Kuzco. You can let go now._ Her voice, warbling with age, broke regardless. Kuzco moved his eyes to the left to see his wife's wet, smiling face; he couldn't see his husband, who was quietly weeping into his hair.

How had she known? His last act of holding on was the most selfless he'd ever committed.

He thought he sensed the lightest pressure on his cheek as his heart stopped, leaving a strange emptiness in his chest. He was ready. His useless eyes closed and he sighed one final time.

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~fin


End file.
